


Wires

by Apsacta



Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: M/M, the AI au no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28294626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apsacta/pseuds/Apsacta
Summary: It’s not the first time that Brett’s father builds a robot. Brett’s seen most of them, the ones built in the attic and the ones designed for factories, some more evolved than others, with various degrees of consciousness, various degrees of utility, from workforce to companionship, various destinations.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 27
Kudos: 75





	Wires

Brett is thirteen, or maybe fourteen, when his father starts work on _it,_ hours and hours in the attic, away and alone, door locked, hunched over his table, and Brett hates _it._ He hates everything, that he’s being left alone for hours, with his violin as sole company, and that his father spends more time with something that’s not even alive than with him. It’s not the first time, but this one is different. This one is meant to stay longer. 

For the longest time, it’s nothing more than wires and screws and bolts, parts that need assembling, fingers twitching and curling on the workbench and a mechanical heart that beats out of time. It creeps Brett out a little, the rare times that he’s allowed to watch, how severed limbs seem to jerk to life with electricity.

“He’s going to be wonderful, once he’s done,” Brett’s father says with a proud nod, “he’s going to make us rich...” and he promises Brett concerts abroad and a brand new violin, and all the things that they have never had before.

It’s not enough to make up for the resentment that builds up inside Brett’s chest.

For a couple of years, the thing sits there, in the attic, freaking Brett out with its hands opening and closing like a pulse. Not alive, but almost. Soon. When the eyes are closed, it’s like it’s asleep.

It doesn’t look like much at the start, half covered circuits, wires sticking out and frequent glitches. But Brett’s father is hardworking and he knows what he’s doing. Days and weeks and months of care, of dedication, of leaving Brett to deal with everything else. It’s okay, he’s done it before, he’s done it with every other one, but this one takes longer, this one takes more care. This one, Brett’s father talks to it even when it’s not conscious yet. 

Brett hates it so, so much, its face and hands and fingers and the way it just looks so _normal_.

It’s not the first time that Brett’s father builds a robot. Brett’s seen most of them, the ones built in the attic and the ones designed for factories, some more evolved than others, with various degrees of consciousness, various degrees of utility, from workforce to companionship, various destinations. Yet this one is by far the most advanced that Brett has seen, human in all ways but the ones that count. 

It’s completely done just a couple of weeks after Brett’s sixteenth birthday, and it opens its eyes for the first time, dark chocolate following Brett across the room, and it takes its first clumsy steps across the garden, overgrown puppy tripping over its own feet.

“Why does it have to be taller than me?” Brett complains.

His father just laughs and pats him on the shoulder. “Be nice to him. He’s still forming his personality.”

It doesn’t have a name. Brett’s father calls it by its model, E3-something-something, a random series of numbers and letters, too long and complicated for Brett to even bother trying to remember. But he treats it like a real person. He does with all of them. 

Brett calls it “it”. He treats it like a machine. He’s done so with all of them, too. They never stay, anyway. They’re not meant for him. 

“It” barely speaks, and in the beginning, it’s dumb as bricks. _He’s learning,_ Brett’s father says, proud, but Brett highly doubts it. What learning can be done by just sitting around and looking at stuff? It’s barely good enough to reach the highest shelves and help carry heavy weights. (Brett makes use of the former, a lot. His father doesn’t need to know. What’s the point of having it there, otherwise.)

“It” has got to have about as much personality as a goldfish, too. Quiet. Shy, maybe. But then, again, maybe that’s the point. To remain unseen. Still...

“Is it a programming flaw?” Brett asks, one day, because surely no one is going to be impressed by a robot that barely even interacts. (He’s not quite sure what this robot is meant for, doesn’t bother asking. Something about minute work, something about precision. Brett doesn’t really care). 

“Hush,” his father answers. “Give him time. Come here, boy,” he waves, and he stops paying Brett any attention as he checks the robot’s hands.

The hands, his father keeps telling Brett, are what matters.

* * *

The hands are what matters, and they’re not good enough, somehow. Brett’s father wants them to be a wonder of precision and steadiness, and they’re not. Something is missing. The robot is fucking useless, is what it is, Brett wants to say. He wouldn’t dare, though. He’s not dumb. Unlike the fucking robot, who speaks like a six-year-old and winces when Brett’s dad fixes his wiring, as if it could _actually hurt_. 

If Brett could once, just once, hit it over the head to teach it a lesson, he would...

“Show me your hands,” Brett’s father asks one day, when the robot has once again failed some kind of test, and it takes some time before Brett understands that he’s the one being addressed. (It’s been a while, he thinks bitterly, since the attention was on him and not the other.) Brett gives his hand, slowly, and his father compares them to the robot’s, palm against palm, fingers pressed together. He seems satisfied by what he sees.

Brett isn’t. Not only do the robot’s hands _feel_ like normal hands, warm and soft, but they, predictably, are larger than his, fingers curling up around the tips. A touchy subject, for a musician. He would complain about it, but he isn’t granted the luxury.

“It should be doable, don’t you think?” his father asks him, a glint of hope in his eyes.

Brett doesn’t understand.

“What should?” he asks, jerking his hands away from the robot, who’s trying to intertwine their fingers. 

“He needs to exercise his dexterity,” Brett’s father says, patting at the robot’s shoulder with a fond smile.

Brett wants to shake his head. (He doesn’t. The robot is looking at him, face unreadable.)

“And?” he asks, though he thinks he knows the answer.

“He should be able to learn the violin, don’t you think? No reason why he couldn’t. That might just do the trick.”

Reasons why it couldn’t, Brett could give at least five – one for each of the fingers that the machine is tentatively flexing his way, like it wants to reach out. And then probably another five, too. He can be mean and petty if he wants to. 

“Is he though?” 

“Tsk.” Brett’s father shakes his head. Sighs. “Brett, come on. You’ve taught the neighbour’s kid. You can find an hour in your day to teach our boy.” 

(Our boy, he says, and Brett has to actively fight to hide how that makes him feel.)

And so it begins. One hour every day, to teach violin to a damn robot who smiles like a lost puppy and behaves like he’s Brett’s best friend or something. 

And it’s fine. Brett can do this. It’s a machine, they’re programmed to learn. At least it isn’t as annoying as little Timmy, who’d rather tell Brett about anything, from the cookies his mother made to what his brother was doing in the garden, than play his goddamn piece. The robot, at least, doesn’t complain. 

The robot, as far as music students go, is okay. 

Brett’s father is happy with the progress, and Brett can, for once, teach someone who makes actual progress, and seems to enjoy what he’s doing. None of that ‘I’m only here because my parents forced me’-shit with him at least. Brett’s slowly starting to warm up to him a little. Until this.

“That’s a G,” the robot says with a proud little smile, eyes twinkling.

“No it’s no- wait, it is, how – how?”

“Perfect pitch,” the robot says with a shrug, and Brett chokes on his own spit.

“The fuck?”

“I’ve got perfect pitch. Don’t you?”

“No I don’t.”

“Oh,” it says, and then it looks proud of itself.

“Dumb fucking thing,” Brett mutters, and those big dumb eyes get all wet and unclear, and Brett frowns. “Ah, no!”

“What?”

“You’re not going to act like you’re going to cry. Those aren’t even real tears.”

The robot shrugs. “I wasn’t gonna cry.” Then it wipes at its cheeks when it thinks that Brett isn’t looking.

“You’re not even human.”

It shrugs again. “Not crying,” it mumbles in a low voice, “not,” but it leaves the room with trembling shoulders. 

* * *

The robot, as it turns out, does not handle criticism well – constructive or not. 

Brett can’t help but think that there’s an error in the system, but after he’s gotten scolded one too many times for making it cry – unfair, entirely unfair and unwarranted – Brett takes to handling it with more care. If only for his own sanity. It’s disturbing, to see a robot cry. Or whatever that version of crying is that it does, anyway.

The robot seems grateful for it, big brown eyes swimming with mirth and something that Brett can’t quite place.

He tries to focus on anything else. It’s easier, that way. There’s still something about the way it behaves that’s unsettling.

It must think they’re friends. Or something. Brett’s pretty sure of that. 

It’s annoying, but Brett can live with that. (Can live without being chewed out every time the robot pretends that it has got feelings and that Brett somehow hurt them.) 

As long as nobody else knows, the robot can keep its illusions. It is, after all, pretty useful in the house. And yes, okay, Brett admits, he’s used it as a tuner too many times to deny that it’s not a cool feature, that perfect pitch thing. Not that he would say it aloud. 

So it gets to this.

Brett gets used to having the robot around, and the robot learns not to behave like a dog or something around Brett. Win-win.

And Brett’s father was right, too – infuriating but true. The robot is slowly forming a personality. And sure, it’s still weird and wonky, but it’s better than – no, it’s not better than silence. But at least it’s something. 

Brett still doesn’t like it, though. It’s just a machine, after all. 

There are two things that change his mind.

The first thing is a joke. (A bad one.)

The first time the robot makes a joke – some dumb wordplay on a composer’s name, and then something about composing, decomposing, Brett can’t really remember – the first time, Brett doesn’t get it.

Another bug, he thinks to himself – the robot’s been having quite a few of those lately. Words coming out unintended – or so they thought. He makes a mental note to tell his father about it – another hour spent in the attic, then, another hour spent with the dumb machine instead of with Brett. (He’s not bitter, he’s used to it.)

The robot seems frustrated when Brett doesn’t react. Another unusual reaction. Brett really needs to tell his father about it.

“Decomposing, do you get it?” the robot offers tentatively.

“I think you meant composing.” Brett sighs. It’s tiring, sometimes, keeping his cool with the machine.

The robot shakes its head, a frown on its face.

“No, no, de-composing. You know?”

“Ay, listen. It’s okay. We’ll fix your software. Composing.”

“Decomposing,” the robot insists. Another tentative smile. “Since he’s been dead for so long. Decomposing.”

When Brett gets it, after the umpteenth repetition, he’s heard it so many times that it’s not even funny. Not that it would’ve been funny if he’d gotten it on the first try. It’s a pretty shitty joke. 

But it’s a joke nonetheless, and Brett can’t help but wonder. How did the robot come up with it? Where did it learn, and how did it get a sense of humour – a pretty dreadful one, sure, but one anyway. It’s certainly not something that Brett’s father has programmed for it. It’s not its destination, (precision work, something about repairs, he’d said, something about split second decisions and steady hands) and Brett’s father doesn’t believe in random additions to make life a little nicer. If it’s not useful, then why should it be? Ergo, the robot shouldn’t be funny, or trying to be. 

So, yeah, if this is a sense of humour, the robot developed it on its own. And that’s – interesting.

“Is that a joke?” Brett asks to be certain, and all mirth disappears from the robot’s eyes.

“Sorry,” he mutters, eyes lowered to the ground. It seems almost – ashamed? That’s also something new.

Brett sighs. “Hey, no, it’s ok. I just...” the words die out on his tongue because what can you say, really. He hasn’t anticipated any of this. 

He doesn’t tell his father about the language bug, though. He’s not quite sure that it is one, after all.

The second thing, then. 

The second thing, Brett also puts it down to a flaw, at first, before it becomes a quirk. 

The second thing is that the robot is – ticklish? (It goes well, Brett thinks later, with its general oversensitivity.) 

When Brett discovers it, though, he doesn’t think anything in particular. His only thought is something akin to astonishment. A loud, resounding _what?_ Or, maybe more likely, _what the fuck_ _is this shit again_. 

Since the violin lessons proved to be a success with the robot’s hand coordination, Brett’s father insists that they continue. Brett still complains about it – for show, mostly. It’s not that bad. The robot is a fast learner. It’s not that bad. When it shuts up.

So, there Brett is, fixing the robot’s posture. It’s unusual. They’re past the point where its posture needs to be fixed (he’s good at the violin - the thought burns inside Brett’s skull, yet it’s true), but something seems to have him distracted, lately – more than it usually is. It’s strange, but then, the robot _is_ pretty strange. So Brett doesn’t pay it much attention, at first. 

When the robot keeps getting distracted, its posture gets worse and worse, up to the point where Brett has to physically correct him. 

It’s weird.

They don’t do physical contact. For obvious reasons. It’s uncomfortable. 

It’s even weirder when the robot suddenly _giggles._ For no valid reason, it’s suddenly folded in two, dangerously inching towards the ground, high-pitched convulsive sounds coming out of its throat. And seriously. What? What the fuck? Brett doesn’t know what to make of that. 

“Tickles,” the robot whines, almost child-like. “It tickles, it tickles.” It pouts, mouth curling up. “It tickles me.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” Brett says, because, again, _what the actual fuck?_ Robots feeling tickles is not a thing. 

“It tickles. When you do that it tickles me,” the robot provides, unhelpfully. 

“It can’t possibly...” Brett begins, but he touches it again and the dumb thing is almost in hysterics. (Its eyes are wet. How?)

“I’m just ticklish.”

Brett’s about to protest when he gets it. “Oh,” he says. “Your captors must be off.”

That sobers it up quite quickly. “Captors?”

“You know. The sensory things under your skin. They must be off, somehow. I’ll tell dad to fix it. It should be fine.” 

It’s the longest thing he’s said to the robot that isn’t somehow insulting, or related to violin playing. It should be noteworthy, but it doesn’t pay attention to it. Instead, its smile falters, and it looks quite distressed. If such a thing is possible.

“Please don’t.”

“Please don't what?”

“Please don’t tell him. He’d – he’d try to fix it – change me, and I don’t want... I’d like to stay me. Please.” 

And like with the jokes, Brett again doesn’t know what to say then. He doesn’t tell his father either. He’s not sure why.

There’s a third thing that changes something, but maybe not Brett’s mind. Maybe by then the robot has already mellowed Brett enough for him to care. Or something.

“You never use my name,” the robot mutters one day after Brett has spent another hour trying to teach it proper pizz.

It’s – unsettling. Uncomfortable. Brett sure as fuck isn’t using that numbers shit to call it.

“Why don’t you use my name?” it insists, and Brett sighs. This is not how he was expecting things to go. It’s been a long time since he’s made the robot cry, and if he’s completely honest, it’s better this way. Easier. But then, what is he supposed to answer to this.

“You don’t... really have one...” There. Said. Done. 

“But you have a name.”

“It’s not the same.”

“How so?”

Brett stares at the robot for a moment, sifting through possible answers. He’s trying to say this as diplomatically as he can.

“It’s not – you don’t – you’re not...” he mumbles.

 _You’re not what_ , though? Human? Alive? Important? _You don’t_... belong? Matter? How do you say stuff like that, tactfully, to a robot who developed a sense of humour on its own and who doesn’t want to fix its programming flaws because it’s afraid it would change him. (How do you say that to a robot that cries every time it’s a bit upset?)

“Do you... want a name?” Brett says, hesitant. (He’d hit himself for that, if he could - don’t encourage it, goddammit.)

The robot shrugs. “It’s fine. Let’s try this again, yeah?” And hides behind the music score with wet eyes that Brett pretends not to see.

He still doesn’t have a name, though, so Brett ends up calling him Eddy.

* * *

So it’s Eddy, then. And it’s a whole new brand of weird.

Eddy is...

Well, Eddy is still the robot. Too quiet sometimes, but useful around the house, and annoyingly good at the violin. He’s still too much of a cry-baby for something that’s not even, technically, human. He’s still, well, a project, isn’t he? He’s still a few steps ahead of other machines in the competition towards, ultimately, creating a completely sentient and independent form of existence. He’s still, to put it clearly, just a robot. A tool. (Brett snickers at the thought. He is, sometimes. Yes. And Brett won’t shy away from reminding him.)

So, Eddy is still the robot, and at the same time, not.

Eddy makes shitty jokes and awful puns that could make anyone cry in desperation.

Eddy folds in on himself when you touch him too lightly, squirm-ish and giggly.

Eddy plays the violin with something else, something more, than robotic movements – and Brett is scared, somehow, to call it as it is: Eddy plays the violin _with feeling_.

Eddy is a fucking know-it-all. Another programming bug, probably. It doesn’t show, first, but after a while, he starts to correct Brett. Points the flaws in his explanation. Shows off more than a stupid fucking machine should. Rants about the most ridiculous stuff like it matters - because it matters to him, for some reason. (It’s painful, so painful, to have to listen to him going on one after another of those rambles.)

Eddy has a name, and he likes it. Brett can hear him mumbling it under his breath when he thinks he’s alone, _Eddy, Eddy._ Brett pretends that he hasn’t noticed.

Eddy’s got eyes that twinkle and a mind that’s all over the place, and that’s the thing, really.

Eddy feels like a person.

But Eddy’s a robot. And it makes things a lot more complicated. 

Eddy is _not_ Brett’s friend, and should not behave as such.

Eddy is _not_ human, and he shouldn’t walk with him in the street and knock shoulders to get his attention, and he shouldn’t tease him or joke with him, and he shouldn’t come to Brett when he’s upset, chocolate eyes wet again – how does he do that? – and he should not have Brett keep stuff from his father like that – Eddy’s shit jokes, his oversensitivity, his nervousness (god knows Brett’s father would be mad if he knew that his perfect precision machine gets shaky hands with nervousness, and Brett should, oh, he should tell him, but nervousness is as much Eddy as his dumb jokes and his show-off side are and Brett, dumb, dumb as he is, doesn’t want Eddy to be something else).

Still, Eddy is not Brett’s friend. Just a robot. And he doesn’t seem to understand that. For all his thoughts and smarts, that’s one thing that he doesn’t seem to understand. And it is weird. A whole new brand of weird.

* * *

“I love you,” Eddy says one day.

Just like that. Cat out of the bag.

“You can’t.” _You shouldn’t, maybe?_ Are robots supposed to feel? To that extent? Or does Eddy – does Eddy just not know what it means, maybe?

“Why not? You love me.”

“No.”

* * *

At night, Eddy’s confined to the attic, to rest and recharge between the mess on the workbench and the tools hanging on the wall. Brett suspects that he hates it there – it’s everything that reminds Eddy of how different he is – but he never says anything about it. Brett never does anything about it either. He’s not ashamed about it, not really, he shouldn’t be, anyway. It’s – it’s how it’s supposed to be. Robots in the attic, humans… He shouldn’t be ashamed of it – it’s how it’s supposed to be. 

There’s no place for him anywhere else, anyway, and Brett’s father says he doesn’t want him wandering the house when they’re asleep. He doesn’t know, obviously.

He doesn’t know that Eddy doesn’t stay in the attic, doesn’t know that he’s found a way to open the door and sneak out. That’s what he’s been designed for, after all. Solving problems. Using those hands that matter so much. 

Brett knows. 

He never says anything about it, but he knows that Eddy wanders through the house at night, knows that he sneaks out to sit in the garden and look at the stars when the sky is clear, or that he takes the violin to the forest at the bottom of the garden to practice where no one can listen. 

* * *

Eddy keeps trying to tell Brett something, but Brett never quite understands what he wants.

He keeps thinking he needs to ask more about it, but always seems to forget. It’s nothing, he thinks. Probably not important. 

* * *

At night, Brett’s father confines Eddy to the attic, for him to rest and recharge between the mess on the workbench and the tools hanging on the wall. He doesn’t know that Eddy doesn’t stay there, that he sneaks out to wander in the house or sit in the garden.

Brett knows, though, he’s known for a while, watches him through the window sometimes. It’s not really a surprise, then, when Eddy knocks at his door one night. It’s almost like he always knew that it would happen. 

“Hey,” Eddy says, and Brett brushes the sleep off his eyes and stares at him. “I...”

“Yeah?”

“I think I heard something up there,” Eddy says very quietly. It’s a lie, and it’s such a big one that Brett doesn’t even bother calling Eddy out on that.

“You’re scared?”

Eddy shrugs. “No... It’s just, I don’t understand why I have to...” his voice dies out at the end and he looks at the ground.

“Listen, there’s nothing in the attic. Just, there’s nothing, right.”

“Maybe I can stay here?” Eddy looks up, full of hope. 

“I... no. That’s not. No.”

“I wouldn’t bother you,” Eddy says very quickly. “Just let me – let me stay in a corner. I won’t make a sound, I promise. I’ll just sit and do nothing. Please.” 

Brett looks at him with wide eyes in the dim light. He was half-joking before, but “You _are_ scared. Oh, fuck, Eddy. There is nothing in that dumb attic. What do you think will happen to you anyway?”

Eddy shrugs with strained shoulders. “It’s just – it’s weird. You won’t even know I’m here.” 

He looks so tiny when he says that, that Brett gives in – but only a little. “Fine. Five minutes. Then you go, right.”

Eddy settles in Brett’s bed like he hasn’t heard the last part. “It’s just, you have a room but I don’t... why?”

“It’s not the same.”

“But why? It’s not fair.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Brett mumbles as he clumsily brushes at Eddy’s hair. “It’s just how it is, that’s all.”

* * *

“I love you,” Eddy says one day.

Just like that. Cat out of the bag.

“You can’t.” _You shouldn’t, maybe?_ Are robots supposed to feel? To that extent? Or does Eddy – does Eddy just not know what it means, maybe?

“Why not? You love me.”

_Yes. Maybe._

* * *

So, this is what Brett has always been...

Brett has always thought of himself as a musician first. It’s weird, maybe, that he’s chosen to define himself by this one thing only, but it is what it is. As far as he can remember, he’s always been playing the violin. It’s him, really. It’s what he is.

It’s a fickle thing, memory. Especially Brett’s. There are gaps and things that feel more like daydreams than reality, and there are moments when he feels like he keeps forgetting things that should be important, but there’s also music. Everywhere. All the time. Brett doesn’t remember a day when he wasn’t holding a violin, and he vaguely remembers a long string of teachers that would come but never stay long, until it was just himself, begrudgingly wrenching progress out of his own fingers. He doesn’t remember his first violin, doesn’t really remember himself in the first days, but he remembers the moment he got this one, his first full size one, his first good one.

So it’s always been this. Brett, and his music, and his dad, and some vague friends that Brett made and forgot with time and, sometimes, the machines that his father was working on.

And then one day there was Eddy. And unlike the others, Eddy stayed.

And it’s bad. It’s so, so bad. 

When Brett gets out of his weird – and warranted, totally warranted – hatred of Eddy (not yet Eddy, at that point), it is to realise that if he thinks of himself as mostly music, Eddy doesn’t see him that way. Eddy thinks of him as someone to look up to, for some strange and obscure reason. 

And maybe it’s true. Maybe around Eddy, after he’s stopped being mean on purpose, Brett actually tries. He tries to be nicer, and he tries to be funnier, and before he even fully realises it, he’s making a real effort to be whatever it is that Eddy sees in him. (And Eddy’s just a robot, it’s not good, makes Brett want to cry when he thinks about it.)

It’s so, so bad, it’s the worst possible thing. Because Eddy is not Brett’s friend. Eddy was not designed to be Brett’s friend, to share jokes and talk about music uninterrupted for forever, and to walk with him down the street and to hide in Brett’s bed because he’s afraid of the dark, of all things.

And it’s so, so bad. Because despite the fact that Eddy’s never been destined to be anything else than a machine, Brett still likes having him around. 

It’s so bad because Brett’s only ever cared about music and nothing else really, but then there was Eddy. 

And Eddy says things that he doesn’t mean, probably, that he doesn’t fully understand and that Brett doesn’t want to hear, at all. Never. Because it’s so bad, it’s so bad that he likes to hear it, that...

And Eddy brushes their fingers together under the table like he’s waiting for Brett to hold his hand, and it’s not good at all. 

“It’s not like that,” Brett says when Eddy asks if they’re best friends, at least, if Brett can admit to that if he won’t admit to more, but Eddy’s hand is trembling a little against his, and Brett’s not so sure.

* * *

It is like that. 

It is like that, and Brett doesn’t know what to do with any of this. Eddy makes shitty jokes and awful puns and Brett laughs with him, genuine, happy laughter that comes naturally. And Eddy’s oversensitive so Brett likes to tickle him so that he can hear that high-pitched convulsive sound come out of his throat and make fun of him for it. And then when Eddy pouts, his pride hurt somehow, Brett pats him on the shoulder and pets his hair.

It is like that, and Brett admits that they’re friends from the tip of his lips, but it’s a huge lie and he’s trying his best not to freak out, because he likes to hold Eddy’s hand under the table when they’re alone, and he’s got that crush on Eddy and it’s terrifying. It’s absolutely terrifying and Brett has no idea what to do with any of that. 

He doesn’t know what to do with his own mind when it’s free to roam to territories that should never be approached and he doesn’t know what to do with his own hands when they’re not held tightly. He doesn’t know what to do with Eddy, with his constant presence in the corner of his eye during the day and his ghostly footsteps during the night, inside and out, with the music notes that he’s only imagining and the gentle rasp against wood.

“I can’t be in love with you,” he tells the closed door one day, when it’s all too much and Brett’s brain is about to short-circuit. 

“Why not,” Eddy whispers from the other side. “What’s so bad about it? Aren’t we the same, you and I?”

And maybe they are, in a way. Maybe Eddy’s looked at Brett too much, in those first few weeks when he was awake. Maybe he’s picked up things from Brett without really knowing, maybe that’s why he’s so easy to like, maybe – maybe he’s exactly the type of person Brett needs. Or he’d be, if he were, well...

If Brett waits long enough, he can hear Eddy’s retreating footsteps and his contained sighs, slowly all the way up to the attic, where Eddy hates to be, scared of the dark and the spare robotic limbs that have been discarded. 

Most nights, Eddy faces the darkness alone, in the attic or in the garden, wandering like a mechanical ghost, and Brett watches him from the window. Eddy doesn’t need to sleep, so it’s fine. Brett doesn’t rest much either, anyway. But Eddy’s not exactly doing well, sleep or not, and it doesn’t feel good. There’s a weird tension, like static in the back of Brett’s neck, and it doesn’t feel nice. Eddy may be a robot, but he’s still Brett’s favourite person, and Brett feels guilty. 

He plops down next to Eddy one night, when it gets too much. “You should rest, maybe.” He’s barefoot and the grass is wet. It’s uncomfortable.

Eddy shrugs. “There’s a full moon.”

Brett sighs. Eddy’s weird sometimes, and he tells him so. It’s very quiet after that. There’s not much left to say.

“What do you do when you want something you can’t have?” Eddy asks eventually, and Brett shakes his head. 

“I don’t like sneaking around.” Brett says it very softly, looks at Eddy from the corner of his eye, but Eddy doesn’t react. He’s still looking at the moon without even blinking. He doesn’t move when Brett gets up, and he doesn’t react when Brett kisses the top of his head before he goes. Brett thinks he stays outside until the sun rises. 

It is what it is, and Brett gets ready to study music away from home even though his father doesn’t like the idea, and Eddy keeps sneaking out at night. 

He’s said... Brett has said that he doesn’t like being sneaky – whatever he meant by that – but there he is, and he thinks he should stop but he can’t, there’s no way. So he still holds onto Eddy’s hand and pinches at his fingertips, and watches him through the window, painfully aware. If he goes, who’ll look after him? 

Eddy’s violin playing gets worse. Brett can’t figure out what is happening. The notes are strained and painful, out of tune more than not. His bow shakes and his fingers slip, and he doesn’t even seem to realise it. One of these days, they’ll get caught and Brett’s father might say that Brett has a bad influence on Eddy, or something (Brett doesn’t, if anything, Eddy’s the bad influence), and he might decide that the violin lessons are useless after all. It can’t happen.

Brett’s tired of this. He wants to shake him. Shake him until the cogs in his brain start working properly, or whatever will fix him. 

“Play like you used to.” 

“I am.” 

Defiant. He looks at Brett like he’s somewhere between sad and angry, or maybe both at the same time, somehow. 

“Is it because of me? Something I did?”

“No shit. But it is what it is, hey?”

“Play like before, please.”

“Can’t do that.” 

Brett’s at a loss, because Eddy’s weird, Eddy’s hurt, and it shouldn’t ever have come to this. It was never meant to come to this. A dumb robot, with chocolate eyes and clumsy limbs, weird sometimes, programming flaws, the sensitivity and the sense of humour, just a robot, stealing his time with his father, helpful thing, picking the books from the highest shelves, know it all, annoying, it’s a G, fuck you. It was never supposed to come to this. Eddy is hurting. 

“Let me do something, help. We’re fr– ”

“Can’t do that either.” 

Eddy’s mouth is a line and his lips are tight, wet eyes again, fingers shaky on the table. Hurt everywhere. (How is it even possible?)

“We’re not friends,” Brett says slowly.

“No we’re not.”

“You don’t want to.”

“I can’t.”

“What can I do, then?”

“Nothing. It is what it is.”

Hurt, everywhere, red, flashing electric. 

It is what it is, until it’s something else. Brett can’t do this anymore.

Eddy looks nice, in the sunlight, even like this. Brett looks at their hands, side by side on the table. There’s no way to tell any difference, no way to tell that one of them isn’t...

It would be so easy to just say it. Put Eddy’s mind at rest.

“Eddy?”

It should be easy, to lay one hand on Eddy’s, quietly, to squeeze a little and just say it. It takes all the effort in the world.

“Take me with you,” Eddy says. He’s not looking at him. 

“What?”

“To study music. Take me with you.”

“Okay.”

The answer surprises them both.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Fuck it. We’ll go together. We can pretend – we can – fuck it, we’ll go together.”

He takes Eddy’s hands. His precious hands, the entire reason for his existence, squeezes them together. Fuck it, he wants to say. (He’s said it before but he wants to say it again. Fuck it all.) It is what it is, until it’s something else. 

It’s nothing they haven’t done before.

It’s holding hands under the table and hugging in the dark, and talking and talking and talking until words become redundant. It’s tickling Eddy until he screams with it, and taking turns on the violin (it’s serenading each other but they won’t admit it). It’s Eddy’s chin on Brett’s shoulder and Brett’s fingers in Eddy’s hair. It’s secret smiles and exchanged looks and an entire new world. It’s nothing they haven’t done before, but it’s all new somehow.

One afternoon, Eddy drags Brett into the forest. It’s mossy and slippery, the branches have weird shapes and the light plays tricks on them, and Brett has no idea what’s going on, what the point of it all is.

“There,” Eddy says, stops in front of a random tree.

“There what?”

“One day I’ll cut this one down, and make a violin from the wood.”

Brett’s torn. _All of this for that,_ he thinks, _you fucking dickhead, what was the point. I’ll buy you one_ , he also thinks, _one day I’ll get enough money and I’ll buy you one._

“You could have just said,” he grunts, “what the fuck were you thinking? If I break my neck...”

Eddy mutters something under his breath. Brett doesn’t get it. He grabs Eddy’s hand to drag him back home. All this time they could’ve spent doing anything else. Playing the violin. If he gets injured, Eddy will never hear the end of it.

He doesn’t get injured.

They fuck up Eddy’s shin, a thorn and a cut, not much, just a couple of wires sticking out. Well, Eddy does it himself, trips on his own feet, dumb fucking machine. Brett has nothing to do with it. He calls him a wanker and tries not to panic. It’s still his fault. His dad will have his head over this, if he sees.

Brett sticks his fingers in the wound to put the wires back in, watches as Eddy shudders with his name on the tip of his tongue.

“Does it hurt?”

“No... it’s weird, though.”

“Yeah. Dumb fuck. You couldn’t watch where you were going, could you?”

Eddy’s never been damaged before. Brett patches him up as best as he can. It’s good, all good. His father won’t ever find out.

They go home, light-headed and high on something that feels like each other.

For a moment, Brett thinks maybe. Maybe this was meant for him, after all.

* * *

It isn’t meant for him.

His dad finds out about the damage and Brett’s shoddy repair job, gets angrier than Brett has ever seen him. It’s all directed at Brett too, like Eddy doesn’t even exist, like he’s not even there with them. And at the end, the words fall.

“You’re not allowed anywhere near him again. Not now that I’ve found a buyer.”

(Brett knew it was going to come. He hasn’t forgotten – more money than they’ve ever had, concerts and a new violin. He knew it was going to come, even though he did his best to ignore it.)

“You can’t,” he pleads.

“I can. I will.”

It’s Eddy who holds Brett back, a hand on his shoulder.

“He’ll go next week,” Brett’s dad says, definitive, and Eddy nods.

Eddy nods, and Brett thinks that he’s taking it all too well, and what did it mean, then, the plans. What did mean, talking about music uni together and everything else, holding hands in the dark, being together like that. What did it mean, if Eddy’s not even fazed by what he just heard.

Brett thinks that Eddy’s taking it all too well, but then the moment that they’re alone, Eddy just. Breaks. In a way that makes Brett fear a short-circuit, or something. Freezes.

“Eddy?”

Eddy doesn’t answer, so Brett pulls him away and Eddy follows, too docile, sits down when Brett tells him to. Doesn’t really react otherwise. Can robots have breakdowns?

Brett sits with him and holds his hand. “Hey, Eddy?”

“Eddy,” Eddy repeats, “not just a machine. Eddy.”

And fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“I’ll convince him. Or I’ll buy you. I’ll find the money. You’re staying with me. Like we said.” 

Eddy looks up. “Music school?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Brett says. He’s not sure if Eddy believes him, or if he’s just pretending. 

“We’re going to do it,” Eddy says, a reassurance to himself. “It’s going to be...” He’s looking at Brett like he’s waiting for Brett to repeat it, reassure him some more, but Brett finds that he can’t quite do it, not again. It’s never going to work, he thinks. His father will never agree to it, and not even in his wildest dreams can Brett find enough money. It’s never going to work, and there’s only one thing left to do, then.

“We’ll go together? To music school?” Eddy asks, voice quiet.

“No.”

Wet eyes, again. “No?”

(Don’t cry, Brett wants to shout, don’t fucking cry. You’re a robot. Robots aren’t supposed to cry. Instead he does something else, something he hasn’t done before.)

“No,” he repeats, takes Eddy’s chin and brings their mouths together. “No. We’re leaving. Tomorrow, when he’s gone, we’re packing. We’re leaving.” 

* * *

They’re gone by noon, packed and ready. (Eddy takes the weirdest shit, batteries that are not meant for him and more tools that they’ll ever need to fix him should anything go wrong. Brett doesn’t say anything. Eddy looks like he knows what he’s doing.)

“We’re going to be fine, yeah?” Eddy asks.

It’s their third bus ride of the day and they’re huddled together, warm, fingers linked together. Two bags at their feet and the violin on Brett’s knees, and no one’s paying them any attention. No one knows.

They should have done that long ago.

“Sure. Nothing that can stop us now anyway.”

It’s Eddy that keeps Brett going, after that, the way he smiles and hums ugly under his breath (he’s got a dodgy voice sometimes. Brett loves it.) He keeps Brett going until it’s too much.

“I can’t,” he mumbles, tripping on his feet. Everything feels so, so heavy, his limbs, the air around him, the way he forms words.

“It’s ok,” Eddy says, his fingers reaching for the back of Brett’s neck, stroking lightly, looking for something. “Give me a minute, I’ve got spare batteries.” 

*

_They’re the same._

_When Eddy’s consciousness comes online for the first time, there are two people with him._

_The first one is a man, fixing something in Eddy’s wrist, and he speaks to him with a gentle voice. He’s the one who brought Eddy to existence, he says. He owns Eddy, in a sense, and Eddy should owe him everything he is, will be, something of that sort. Eddy doesn’t pay him much attention._

_The second person is Brett. Brett is… Brett is the same as Eddy. But better. Brett is older, nicer, more talented than Eddy. Brett doubts nothing, and isn’t scared of anything. Yet, they’re the same. Eddy knows it the moment his eyes land on Brett._

_Brett doesn’t know. He wasn’t made to be some sort of experiment, some sort of elaborated tool. He was made to be Brett, just Brett. (Eddy was never designed to be Eddy, he became Eddy because of Brett.) No matter how many times Eddy tells him - that they’re the same, that they belong together - Brett keeps forgetting it._

_It’s tragic, in a way, that Brett can never remember this, and it hurts, but it’s not the end of the world. It just means that Eddy has to know for them both. How lucky they are, then, that it’s exactly what Eddy was designed for._

_*_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you.  
> Happy holidays.  
> Take care :)


End file.
